


turn it back on

by psikeval



Category: Enslaved: Odyssey to the West
Genre: F/M, First Time, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll be here however she wants him, for the girl who said <i>you have to</i> and then asked, every time, if he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn it back on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radiophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/gifts).



\--

 

Monkey doesn’t think about it.

Or—he doesn’t  _not_  think about it, exactly. Some things are just fucking impossible. But they’re stuck out here together, even if one of them has more of a  _goddamn leash on_ , whatever, no use making things worse than they are. Don’t wanna make her uncomfortable. God knows she’s got enough to deal with already.

“Do you mind?” Trip asks, already reaching out. She’s got such tiny little hands. Careful. Precise.

He shrugs and mutters “Sure.”

It takes a while, or feels like it does when he’s watching so closely, like that paradox thing where you keep halving the distance and never really get there. She does, though. Fingertips tracing the old lines, so gentle he can’t even feel it on the worst of his scars. He just watches instead, feels her breath warmer than sunlight on his skin and isn’t sure if he’s breathing at all.

“They’re beautiful,” she says before they have to get going again, but her face is flushed and she won’t quite look him in the eye and Monkey doesn’t think about it. Much.

 

\--

 

One of those grown-over concrete oases has water that looks clean enough, a new river finding a way through after the old got dammed up somewhere, and they’re both sweaty and grimy as hell so they stop to wash up. Trip first, while Monkey checks around for anything the scans might’ve missed, easy escape routes, that kind of thing.

After she's done and dressed again, hair heavy with water that drips down the lines of her back, Monkey wades in towards the deepest part of the water, up to his chin. Any further and his feet wouldn't touch the bottom. He knows how to swim in the sense that he used to be  _shit_  with the cloud, always falling off and dumping himself in water he had to tread. These days he isn't even that bad.

He dives down and hopes it’ll make the headband short-circuit, or wishes he hoped that, or something. Doesn’t matter. When he comes up for air he splashes water on his face, scrubs at a week's worth of grit and grease. Then there's his gear to worry about. Monkey crouches by the water and rubs away the dust that's accumulated on his gauntlets. The joints have got to stay clear, for him to keep moving properly.

The bottom-left display pings, not an emergency signal but enough to make him remember it’s there, in his head. Trip’s heart rate’s gone up, even though she’s not moving. She’s close, though. She’s… right behind him, actually.

“Uh,” he says, turning his head, because it’s not like he really minds, but still. “Yeah?”

Trip doesn't startle like he's half-expecting her to. Her hair’s draped over one shoulder, still heavy and damp but drier now, spread out at the ends where she's been combing it with her fingers. She doesn't say a word for a long moment, just keeps watching. Eyeing the pattern on Monkey's shoulders that curls halfway down his spine. “Hey,” she says softly, finally.

“You need something?”

She hesitates and then he sees the change in her face, the way she's looking at him, like she's decided. She steps closer, and the right moment to move away comes and goes, with Monkey still sitting there, waiting to see what'll happen. It's hard to think of a reason he'd want to be anywhere else.

It feels like slow motion, the way she tips him down on the grass. The way he lets her.

“Trip—”

“You have so many scars,” she murmurs, skimming her fingers along them; not pitying, just interested. Staring at things to figure out how they work, like always. By now she probably doesn't even know she's doing it. And it oughta be weird, being turned into a puzzle, like the shit she finds in the ruins and turns over in her hands, but— Monkey doesn't know if he can move, or even breathe.

He nearly chokes at her knuckles running down his belly, grits his teeth against it. There's no fucking way they can do this here.

“Trip.” She hums quietly and ducks down to lick water off the scar on his hip, instead of reading his mind or whatever, so he has to think of a word that isn’t her name. “Trip,  _wait_.”

Maybe too loud, from the way she jerks back.

“Sorry,” he mutters, neck flushed hot, unable to look her in the eye. “It’s just— it’s dangerous here. In the open. Could be mechs.”

Easier than saying she scares the hell out of him, and besides that it's true. They can't go taking stupid risks just because they— well, he, at least— oh, what the fuck ever. They can't. Trip frowns like she might argue, like he's just making excuses, but finally nods. “Okay.”

Monkey drops his head back and snorts up at the clear blue sky above. “Yeah,  _okay_. I’ll just try and put on my pants, then. See ya next week.”

She laughs at that, or at him; puts a stupid warm feeling in his chest again. It'll be all right.

 

\--

 

They find a place to stop at sunset, when there's still enough time to make camp before it's dark. All afternoon Trip's been holding on to him — which is what she has to do, so she won't fall off the goddamn bike. They haven't bothered talking much over the engine and the wind, but they never really do. She hasn't been acting the slightest bit different. It's Monkey's head that's screwed up now, making things seem changed. It's his only excuse for thinking stupid shit like _have her breasts always been that soft? Is she always this warm?_

Trip sets up a few of those paper lanterns, then hoists herself up to sit on the shell of a broken old vehicle, grown over with moss and creeping vines. She's watching him — and even that's not so unusual, it's not like they've got anyone else — but there's something expectant about it, enough to make Monkey nervous. “What?” he asks gruffly when he can't take any more.

“There aren’t any mechs around here,” she says. Her arms are crossed and her heart steady; there’s no getting out of this even if he wanted to.

(He doesn't, he absofuckinglutely doesn't, because Monkey will be here however she wants him, so far gone for the woman who told him  _you have to_  and then asked him, every single time, if he would. But his mouth is dry and he's got no idea if he's even supposed to want this. There probably aren't rules for wandering a wasteland while being hunted by machines, but he's got his own rule: that he's going to do right by Trip even if it kills him. He thinks it just might, by the time she's through.)

Instead of figuring out how to mention any of that, Monkey just says, "So?"

She gives him that considering look that always makes him nervous.

"How long do you think you can hold me up?"

 

\--

 

Monkey knows his limits, the way you have to when you fling yourself around jumping on shit that might not hold your weight, and he’s been carrying Trip for a while. If he hated himself enough to wonder, he’d have figured he could balance her weight on one hand.

It’s easier with her holding onto his shoulders, and his other hand spread on the small of her back. Trip wraps her legs around him like a habit for leverage, so she can work herself on his fingers more easily, and she was biting her lip before but now her mouth falls open and she’s making these  _sounds_ , broken little gasps, completely unselfconscious. He'd thought she'd be— well, he'd had no fucking idea, really. But somehow he just wasn't expecting this.

He curls his fingers just a little inside her and she cries out, jerks her hips against Monkey’s hand and tries to put a hand over her mouth all at once — nearly loses her balance but tips forward against him instead, arm braced against his neck.

"Hi," she whispers, breathless, leaning her forehead against his. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting—”

Naturally, he does it again, and Trip grinds down onto his palm, whining softly in her throat, her mouth soft and warm against his cheek.

"Oh god. Okay. Once more. Just keep—”

So carefully, Monkey tilts her enough that the hand on her back can support most of her weight, giving more leeway to work his fingers, to twist his thumb and rub clumsily where she's wet and— Trip is shaking when she comes, her arms and legs wrapped unsteadily around him, 'til he has to set her down or risk dropping her. She stays on her feet by leaning into him, gasping one arm still slung around his neck.

“Okay?” he asks her, meaning both  _are you—?_ and _was_ _that—?_

Either way, Trip nods against his chest and stumbles back smiling.

"Oh my god," she says, like she did when he went over a hundred on a flat stretch of road. Breathing hard, flushed and exhilarated, half-dizzy with adrenaline, just on the edge of laughter. “I think you should take your pants off again.”

“You know, we don’t have to.”

“Great. Fuck me anyway.”

He tries not to laugh, but the face she’s making at him—it’s just cute, somehow, in the middle of wanting her so bad he can barely remember to breathe. “Yeah,” Monkey says before she gets actually mad. “Yeah, okay.”

 

\--

 

It's possible he hasn't taken the most efficient route. Monkey blames the look in her eyes when he licked his fingers clean; either way he ended up here, on his knees, head buried between her legs, working his tongue against her clit. He brought her off a second time and she's slick and tastes kind of fucking amazing, fingers still twitching in his hair. 

“Get up here,” she mumbles, tugging him towards her, so he does.

On the way he mouths at her stomach, her collarbones, the curve of her jaw. There's a moment where he thinks he should kiss her, or that she's going to kiss him, but neither of those things happen and the moment just — passes, no way of knowing if he missed his only chance.

“Mm. You should—” Instead of finishing her sentence, Trip brings her legs up closer around him and pushes his pants down further with her toes. (And seriously, people call  _him_  Monkey.) 

“Happy now?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

Trip rolls her eyes. “Of course you’d be grumpy,” she mutters, sits up and takes off her shirt. It’s the total lack of ceremony that gets to him, maybe, or just— she's so comfortable like this, around him. Absolutely certain he won't hurt her, in a way nobody ever is. Makes him want to spend every waking hour earning it.

Her sides are sensitive, and this one spot on her neck, and the backs of her thighs, and she takes quick shuddering breaths when he rubs his calloused thumbs over her nipples, back and forth. When Trip arches up he can put his hand on that curve in her spine again, feel the weight of her as she moves. Finally she has to reach up and shove at his shoulder. “Come on. Please?”

“Yeah.” He drags one hand down to her hip, helps her hitch a leg around his waist again. He takes it slow, easing into her like torture and it's — too much, a flash of white from the monitor and a warning buzz at the base of his skull. Monkey goes perfectly still. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I’m hurting you.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’ve got this thing in my head, remember?” He points and lifts his eyebrows; it's not like she can argue. “I know when it hurts.”

“Getting tossed around onto concrete hurts too,” she says, and works her hips deliberately beneath him. “It's just been a while. I’m fine. Don’t make me command you.”

It’s got to be the least convincing threat he’s ever heard. It doesn’t matter. Just hearing her say it, feeling the the jolt of energy crackle at the word  _command_ , makes his knees go weak, makes him want it so much he can barely see straight. And of course Trip notices; her eyes go wide and she whispers, so low he only hears it inside his head,  _Oh._

Yeah.  _Oh._

 

\--

 

“So…”

“I won’t say the word. I wouldn’t do that to you, I swear.”

“You could.”

“ _No_.”

“Then what?”

Trip bites at her lip for a second, calculating. Cautious, but not unsure. “I’m still ordering you to fuck me. Be careful, but don’t you dare stop unless I tell you to.” Trip stares him down, her eyes sharp and stubborn. “You  _will_  obey me.”

Like there was ever any doubt.

She never gives a true command, something the headband would hurt him for disobeying, but Trip orders him all the same. With other words, with her hand in his hair. She does make him stop, buried inside her, with that slick heat tight around his cock, makes him wait and laughs when he starts swearing because they both know he doesn't mean it, until he’s shuddering and half out of his fucking mind because she also said  _don’t come_. Soon he’s completely draped over her, weight held on his forearms and his face against her neck.

“Slower.” She scrapes over his scalp with her fingernails, and Monkey chokes out her name but obeys, always obeys. Too much and he still wants more; typical. “Good.”

He’s too far gone to notice the hand she’s slipped between them until Trip’s whole body writhes and he groans and fucks her through it, one of her hands scratching hard enough to hurt across his back. “Oh,” she whimpers against his neck, “Oh— okay. Faster now. Until you come.”

It doesn’t take long, just a few quick thrusts of his hips before he’s shaking apart, shattered, safe with her hand on his neck. He loses track of time, a bit, somewhere between collapsing and remembering that maybe he should look up, check on her. See if it was all right. Maybe he shouldn't have worried. Trip's smiling, more lazy and satisfied than he's ever seen her, eyes a little glazed in the afterglow.

“Thank you,” she says, stretching out her legs, pointing her toes.

“Uh. You're welcome.”

She makes a face and laughs up at the clear night sky, too beautifully relaxed to look the slightest bit embarrassed. It's nice to see the weight of the world off her shoulders for once, every line of Trip easy and content. “Sorry, was that weird to say?”

“Nah, I think we're good.”

“I'm glad.” Trip curls over him enough to kiss him lightly on the lips, and even after everything they've done he still feels stunned by it. Instead of reciprocating he mostly just stares at her like an idiot, but she doesn't seem to mind.

“Have we got any food left?” she asks, settling back down next to him. Monkey shrugs.

“Depends. If you mean is it _edible..._ ”

Her laugh turns into a yawn halfway through. “Well. A girl can only ask so much.”

“Then yeah, there should be some in your bag.”

She makes a pleased noise but doesn't get up right away. Instead, she traces the pattern on the back of Monkey's bare hand, like she's going to guess what it looks like in the dark. It's an idle, soothing kind of movement. “Thought you were getting food,” he says after a while.

“In a minute,” Trip murmurs, distracted, but lingers a little longer than that.

 

\--

**Author's Note:**

> (what food are they eating? i don't know. apocalypse food. it comes in little packets marked "end of ze world" and it's all the rage when traveling the wasteland. it's probably played by andy serkis. you're welcome.)


End file.
